Alfred Hitman Jones
by Grimmji
Summary: (Mafia!AU) Alfred F. Jones has a terrible day job, but he makes up for it by being in one of the most powerful mafias in town, but even then, he was only allowed to be a member because of his strength. And because of Him. Him being his other half. Yes, you heard right, Alfred has a split personality, matched only by the rival mob boss, Ivan Braginski. (Please review, I am lonely)
1. Chapter 1

Alfred sighed as he walked down the nicely decorated hall to the room where Arthur Kirkland, one of the most feared mob bosses in town waited for him. Alfred knew he was only ever summoned when there was a very important, or very dangerous, mission at hand.

Soon Alfred stopped in front of a beautifully carved oak door which he knew lead to the gang's meeting room. He sighed again and opened the door, it creaked hideously.

"You really gotta' get these hinges oiled, dude," Alfred lamented as he entered.

"You mean 'got to,' kindly stop ruining the Queen's beautiful language. And I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I'll get to it, eventually," came a mildly annoyed, obviously British voice from inside the room.

The room was simple, it had a long table with chairs lining the sides. Two of the chairs were occupied at the moment. At the head of the table sat a rather short, blond haired man, with forest green eyes and hair that was more mustard yellow than Alfred's own wheat color. The man wore casual-formal beige pants, a short-sleeved, white button-up shirt with a green sweater and tie to top it all off. Next to him sat a much simpler looking Asian man, who had short, black hair, brown eyes and wore a simple black suit.

"I reckon you already know why you are here," the blond spoke.

"Yeah, you wanna have an epic threesome, don't you Artie?" Alfred joked.

The two at the table did not look so amused, Arthur was blushing and sputtering indignantly, while the Asian man, Kiku Honda, simply looked flustered, even if it didn't show on his usually emotionless face.

"Bloody git! You are here for a mission!" Arthur shouted angrily before he could calm himself. When he trusted himself not to strangle the American, he began to talk again. "This mission is very dangerous and risky so–"

"So you want _his_ help, don't you?" Alfred cut in.

"Yes," this time it was Kiku who spoke. " _He_ is our best chance at completing this mission. Judging _his_ track record and reputation, we have deduced that out chances of success will be large if _he_ is to carry out this particular mission."

"Alright then, what's the details?" Alfred questioned.

* * *

Street lamps lined the high-class neighborhood's empty streets, casting a faint, flickering glow on the concrete below. The posh and pristine houses all around were dark and quiet, there was no one around, it was to late at night, everyone was asleep. Even if there had been someone around, it would still have been hard to spot the figure dressed in dark clothes scaling one of the many-storied houses.

The figure was quick and quiet, precise and focused, a perfect hunter, looking for prey. As the dark figure reached its goal, a large window on the third floor, one of its strong arms reached down to a belt at its waist, the other still holding onto the window seal. A few tools were pulled free from the belt and the figure got to work, deconstructing the window as quietly as possible from the outside. Soon enough the frame became loose and the darkly dressed figure crawled through.

When the figure was sure it was out of sight of any possible peering eyes, it reached up and pulled off the dark hood covering its face. The dark material fell away to reveal a head of wheat colored blond hair and sharp, light blue eyes. "Now that that part's over," the man sighed, running a hand through his hair, smoothing down a strand of hair that bounced back up stubbornly, and putting on a pair of rectangular glasses. "Time for the fun part."

The blond searched the room, which happened to be a large study. He was glad he had found his way to this room first, it would save him time. He began to search through bookshelves and drawers until he eventually found his prize, an orange package of paper tied together with a red ribbon. The blond pulled out a folded piece of cloth from one of the few folds in his cloths and unfolded it into a bag, he stuffed the package in carefully and put the bag back into its place on his being. Next he approached a door on the other side of the room, he opened it and walked into it, before quickly realizing that the door was, in fact, just leading to a closet. He immediately stepped out and shut the door, happy that he was on a solo mission and didn't have a partner to laugh at him, not that anyone would dare. The blond nimbly crept towards the only other door in the room and opened it, this time peering out to make sure it wasn't another closet, it wasn't. It was a long hallway, which, he thankfully knew from heart by studying the blueprints he was given. The closet's position had given him the gist as to where he was in the house and where he needed to go. He was throughly surprised, however, that there was not many security measures. He did not see a chip nor a camera anywhere. But that didn't matter, he just had to find _that_ room now. The lack of security just made his job easier.

Once again the man crept along the hallway, sliding in the shadows like a black panther tracking her prey. Soon, after going through the mental map again, the man stopped in front of a door, it was simple and unsuspecting, but the blond knew better. This was a dangerous job, even for him, he needed to be careful. The door was locked, but it was simple enough to pick. When he heard a quiet click from inside the door he knew he could start, he turned the door knob and prepared to quickly dispatch his target if the door creaking had disturbed him. Strangely, the door offered no resistance and silently opened on well-oiled hinges.

The blond looked into the dark room, his eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting long ago, so he could make out the large rises in the sheets on a bed in the center of the room. This was it, the room he would end his mission in. His finale goal: Assassinate rival mob boss, Ivan Braginski.

He snuck towards the bed, and pulled out another item from his belt of knick-knacks. This time it was one of his favorite tools, his sharp and trusty hunting knife. The blond raised the knife above his head as he snuck even closer to the bed. He was within a foot of the bed when he noticed something wrong.

The lump under the sheets was not moving. As in, it did not rise and fall in the peaceful pattern that sleeping people's chests usually did. How could he be so _stupid?_

He began to spin around to look for his prey, but he was to slow, he realized, as the hunter became the prey. He felt a needle jam into his arm and a substance injected into him and then blackness invaded his mind.

* * *

 **Hey guys! I did a bad thing! I came out with another story while working on one already! Sorry, but this story has been in my mind for a long time and just wanted to make sure I didn't lose it.**


	2. Chapter 2

The darkness cleared and Jones realized that he was sitting on a very uncomfortable chair and could not move. He blinked quickly, trying to clear the haze blocking his vision. He surveyed his surroundings as best he could, as he had been taught to do oh-so many years ago, but he realized that he wasn't wearing glasses. _Well, this is quite the predicament_ , Jones thought to himself. Then he heard the creak of a door somewhere behind him, and the sound of an amused chuckle.

"Happy, bastard?" He questioned.

"Very," a man with a thick Russian accent responded.

The man walked to stand in front of him. He could make out silvery blond hair as the man pulled out a stool from a nearby desk and sat down. The man reached forward and all of a sudden, Jones could see again and he felt the comforting weight of glasses on his nose. Jones looked up to see the smiling face of his captor, he smiled in turn. Both men's smile equally disturbing.

"So," the silver haired man began. "You are the famous Hitman Jones of the Kirkland group."

"And you are Ivan Braginski, leader of the General Winter group," Jones replied.

Ivan Braginski chuckled. "I am. And you, were sent to assassinate and steal important documents from me, da?"

"Da," Jones mocked in a Russian accent.

Ivan's grin darkened. "You will learn to regret challenging me. I'll be sure to have you begging for mercy at my feet."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

Ivan hummed as he picked up a package from the desk, which, Jones noted, was cluttered with a variety of tools. The package was tied with a red ribbon, it was the one he had taken from the office he had climbed into.

"You recognize it, da? It is the important 'information' that was part of your mission, such a pity it was a decoy," Ivan said as he opened it and poured out its content of newspaper articles and a stack of stapled papers. "' _Dry Fire Burns Down City Gang's Hideout_ ,' ' _Man Found Dead in Office, Barely Recognizable_ ,' ' _Woman Shot in the Head, Body Found With Over $50,000 Stolen Dollars_ '," Ivan read off. "All these were you, weren't they?"

"Ah! I have been caught! I'm sorry officer! Take me now!" Jones gasped dramatically.

Ivan's smile faltered a bit at the mock guilt. Jones watched as Ivan picked up the stapled papers from the package. He stiffened when he realized what it was. It was files on him, on Alfred. No matter how heartless Jones was, he had no choice but to be protective of Alfred, they were the same after all.

"I have yet to view these. Let's look through it, shall we?" Ivan giggled.

He reached to begin flipping through the files, but he never got the chance to finish when a hand flew forward and hit him square in the nose. Ivan flew back, stunned. Jones grabbed the files and grinned dementedly down at the tall man on the ground.

"Sorry 'bout that, sweetheart, but I can't have this information known by anyone," Jones looked at the tools on the table. Torture instruments. He grinned as he picked up a pair of large tweezers. "Shall I play with you?"

"Go ahead," Ivan growled, standing back on his feet.

Ivan assumed a fighting pose, hands up and in fists, knees bent and legs spread out evenly. Jones, however, was much more casual and relaxed.

"Now might I ask how you got your bindings off?" Ivan inquired.

"Simple. You can't contain a weapon," with that Jones leaped forward and stabbed the tweezers directly for Ivan's eye.

Ivan just barely managed to dodge, small drops of blood began seeping through a new cut on his cheek, the red stream merging with the blood running from Ivan's nose. It was a bit scary how Jones seemed to match his strength. No one Ivan had ever met before could oppose him. Ivan smiled. _This should be interesting!_

Jones swept to the side Ivan had dodged to and realized that the man was gone. He then felt a large, cool hand grab his wrist and twist. Jones grunted and dropped the tweezers. He then felt and elbow shove itself under his shoulder blade. Next he knew, he was on the floor with the Russian pinning him down from on top of him. It was a compromising position, Jones couldn't move anything except his legs. Jones knew what he could do, but he wasn't sure how it would turn out.

Jones kicked his legs up with all the strength he could muster, which was quite a bit, actually. The force sent Ivan flying over his head, and Jones ended up with his back to Ivan on his hands and knees. He quickly rose and turned to face Ivan, the man had landed in quite a strange position, he was up against a wall, slouched over, _upside-down._

Jones wanted to laugh, in fact, he _did_ laugh. He couldn't help it, it was to funny. Ivan looked up at him with blatant irritation. Jones had noticed the single, small window in the room and saw how it was beginning to darken outside. Had he been here that long? Jones sighed and looked over at the Russian man who was pushing himself up and preparing for revenge.

"Well, I'd love to stay and play, but it seems that I must go, I'm very late and I know Arthur will be very cross. Bye-bye!" Jones called as he pushed out the window.

"You don't plan to leave without a parting gift?" Ivan said as he himself raced towards the window, hoping to stop the blond's escape.

Jones turned around and stepped forward in such a way that, instead of a hard fist meeting his face, his and Ivan's mouths met and both became stunned. Ivan's quick approach had made him push Alfred against the wall, where they now stood, mouths still together, eyes still wide and confused. Finally, Jones made the first move, he pushed Ivan away and climbed out the window before any more blunders could be made.

Ivan simply stood in the room. He stood so long, in fact, that he barely noticed the moon rising and the darkness filling the room. He felt strange, he had had the perfect chance to dispatch the infamous Hitman Jones, and he wasted it. _But_ , Ivan thought to himself, _he also had the chance to kill me._

* * *

 **So how was it? Has it gone bad already? Please review and share your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred woke up with a dull ache throbbing on his back. Had he slept wrong? Did he need a new mattress? Or perhaps it was left over from his mission the other night. Alfred still couldn't believe it, Arthur had informed him that he had not succeeded in his mission. For this reason, the mission was still ongoing, but Arthur had told him that he would not permit him going out again until he has his bearings together and could handle the job. However, Hitman did not like being underestimated. Or losing.

Alfred looked at a note pad that rested on his desk. He used it to communicate with Jones. For as long as he could remember, Alfred and Jones had shared their body with a few simple rules: No harming the body intentionally. No romantic interaction unless approved by the other half. And the most important one, the one that kept the peace, no invading the other half's 'out time.' It was simple. Jones had control at night, and Alfred had control during the day. This was now starting a fight, however. Alfred looked at the handwriting on the page that was different from his own, yet still his.

 _I can't believe this. It was not my fault that the mission failed, it was yours! You broke the rule when that bastard kissed us, I would've killed him right there, but you held me back! He could've killed us in that moment and it would have been_ your _fault!_

Alfred sighed. He didn't even remember going out. It might have just been Jones discovering his weakness. Alfred wanted to laugh at that. The infamous Hitman Jones, weak to kisses and cuddles.

Alfred's thoughts were interrupted by his cellphone ringing. He looked at the caller ID which read "Artie Grouchland," Alfred chuckled, his contact names were the best and never failed to make him smile.

He clicked the answer button and practically shouted, "'Sup, Iggy!"

He heard an annoyed grumble from the other end followed by Arthur's tired voice, "I've told you about those silly nicknames, and I am not in the mood. Anyway, I have a job for you. After your shift at the pub we have some cleaning up to do. You know the usual place, and please, for the love of God and everything good, don't mess around."

Alfred was about to respond but Arthur hung up before he could get a word in. He huffed. "Grouchland."

* * *

Alfred sighed as he signed the paper that verified he had showed up at work and left too. He was signing out earlier than usual today. It wasn't his fault, a bunch of drunk bastards had decided it was a good idea to grope him. He nearly broke their faces open, and so he was told to go home early. Most people would be happy to be sent home early, but for him, it meant having to 'clean up' a mess earlier than expected. He was not looking forward to it, that was for sure.

It took him a couple of hours to drive to the dumping area. The dumping area was the forest a few hours out of town, no one ever went there, except for the gangs. Everyone knew about the gangster powers, even the police, but nobody did anything or else they too would end up in the dumping area. But the one good thing about the dumping area was that it was No Mans Land, no one gang owned it, but every group had their own section of the forest.

Alfred walked silently as he swung a large shovel all about, handling it like a large, uneven staff. Hitman wasn't the only one who could fight, obviously, it was just that Hitman was better at it.

Alfred was merciful, and Hitman was merciless. Day and night trapped in the same body.

There was a long history of how and why Hitman Jones came to be, but Alfred did not talk if it to anyone, only a select few knew of the story. Once upon a time there was one person who knew the story, it was a therapist who had tried to help, she was very nice and caring, but Hitman enjoyed killing recklessly in childhood, so it was an unfortunate night when she had come into their room to check up on them only to be jumped on and strangled with thin bedsheets. Alfred didn't like to think of what she might have seen last: his body, the smiley child of the day, or his eyes, the murderous psychopath of the night.

Alfred was brought from his thoughts when he made it to the spot where an occupied body bag lay. Alfred sighed and got to work, shoving the shovel into the dirt, lifting it out, throwing it into a pile, and repeating. He repeated until he had a good, six-foot deep hole that was the length and width of the body bag. Alfred, not wanting to have to touch the bagged corpse, began to push the body into the hole with his shovel, meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, a certain Russian mafia boss had just finished up enjoying burying his own prey and was heading straight in Alfred's direction.

* * *

 **Oh Hello, I'm not dead yet, but I'm having quite a terrible time writing, I get such good ideas when I'm trying to sleep, and they're really good mind pictures, but it's hard to turn pictures into words, so yeah. BOOM SHORT CHAPPY! I honestly have no idea what I'm doing...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Quick note to help you understand Alfred and Jones: During times of physical and/or mental weakness, a personality can take over more easily, a personality may be able to force its way out, or it can be forced out. However, when one personality is 'out', the other will not be aware of what is going on 'outside'. This can leave a personality rather helpless if it is called out in a desperate time.**

* * *

Alfred jumped when he heard footsteps in the foliage off to his side, he had been resting on an old tree stump after finishing his job, not wanting to go back and face the world just yet. Now, he was on his butt, scrambling to get to his feet and into a defensive pose if anyone or anything came at him. The shuffling in the trees had stopped, so, either whatever was there was gone, or waiting for him to lower his guard, or, you know, it was just the wind. Alfred didn't sense anything, so he guessed it might've just been the wind, he relaxed a little bit, just enough for him to become aware of how hot he was.

His dark clothing and mask combined with the beating summer sun made him sweat a river. Small salty drops ran down his body in a way that was sort of ticklish. Man, did he need to cool down.

Alfred knew that, despite being a gang-claimed area, the forest was a very beautiful place, when you got over the stench of human decay thing, that is. Alfred, himself, knew of a place that was relatively free of unmarked graves and other people.

Alfred set off walking until he pushed through a patch of familiar trees. He took on the astounding beauty of the place he had found oh-so long ago. It was a small waterfall that fell into a clean, crystal pool. It was always cool and beautiful there because it was concealed by trees so thick you could barely see through them. Alfred giggled with childish glee as he threw off his mask and dark clothing, jumping into the surprisingly deep pond with nothing but his boxers on. The water was cool and refreshing on his hot, clammy skin.

Alfred splashed and swam about the small area of the the pond, shoving his head beneath the cool waterfall and laughing. This was one of the few places he could return to the childhood he never had. He was free here, completely free. He was safe here, completely safe–

Another rustling in the forest cut of his musing and playing, he had completely forgotten about keeping his guard up, and now he was defenseless in the water. Alfred began to panic when someone pushed through the branches he had come through just minutes—or had it been hours?—ago.

Alfred squeaked—in a very manly way, mind you—and almost completely submerged himself in the water, leaving his nose and eyes above so he could breathe and see. The new person had silvery hair and violet eyes. Alfred noticed, with a slight blush, that the man was rather attractive. Tall, with a childish face. The man was wearing a long, thick coat and a scarf, Alfred observed, and he wondered how the man hadn't collapsed from the heat yet. Alfred also noticed that he seemed familiar. They had probably passed each other on the street somewhere.

Ivan, himself, was scanning his surroundings until his eyes landed on the soaking head sticking part way up from the water, it had wheat blond hair and clear blue eyes that matched the magnificent crystal blue of the water. Ivan knew those features well.

"So, it is you, da?" Ivan asked.

Alfred was distracted for a moment by the stranger's—sexy—accent, but he recovered quickly, "What? Have we met?"

This answer puzzled Ivan, but then, he thought, this might be a sneaky tactic, fool him into thinking he had the wrong person. But it might not be him after all, he was completely submerged except his head after all, and his manner of speech was not the same.

"Get out of the water," Ivan ordered.

"Nah dude, I'm good here," Alfred responded, not willing to be seen in only his underwear, especially by this—attractive—stranger.

Ivan sighed, he was not willing to get wet, but he was not willing to let this person—who may or may not be his assassin—get away. He pulled out his hand gun from his coat, and watched in amusement as Alfred recoiled in the water.

"Hey, man! This is neutral territory! No fighting here!" Alfred exclaimed, suddenly finding the stranger a little less hot.

Ivan hummed in thought, "It doesn't matter if no one finds the body, da?"

Ivan prepared to shoot, his mistake, however, was blinking. As soon as his eyes closed, Alfred shot out of the water and tackled Ivan with inhuman speed. Alfred ended up straddling Ivan at his waist, hands clamped over his neck in case he tried anything. Ivan was shocked for just a moment, but then he smirked at the confirmation that this person was his assassin.

Hitman Jones.

Alfred, too, had made a mistake when he tackled Ivan. He secured the neck, but not his hands. With this fatal mistake in his favor, Ivan raised a fist and slammed it into Alfred's cheek, sending him flying. Alfred had landed near the place he had thrown his clothing and gear earlier. He grabbed his shovel, holding his wounded cheek in his hand.

"Bastard," Alfred grumbled, then he charged Ivan, who had, in turn, taken out his own weapon, his favorite metal faucet pipe. Alfred couldn't help but wonder where these weapons cane from, that coat was huge after all.

Alfred had jumped to add some force to his attack as he brought the blade of his shovel down, aiming for Ivan's shoulder. Ivan was able to intercept the attack with his pipe, catching the shovel by the shoulder with the curve of his pipe. He yanked his pipe, which sent the shovel flying behind him, and leaving Alfred defenseless. Alfred, however, had realized this long before the shovel left his hands, and was already prepared to punch Ivan. He did. Hard.

Ivan was sent backwards, hand clutching his stomach. Only a few had ever been able to harm him like this before. Ivan giggled, a strange sound, a kind of mix between a child's laugh and a howler monkey's call—which was a terrifying mix. Alfred flinched.

"I'm glad I had Toris clear my evening schedule," Ivan mused before he grabbed up his pipe and ran at Alfred, he feinted right, and swung from the left while Alfred had gone to defend his other side.

"You seem slower than our last encounter," Ivan observed as Alfred crashed into a tree. "Why is that?"

Alfred spat out a bit of blood and 'tsk'ed, but when he heard Ivan's question, it clicked. The stranger's accent was Russian, and you know the only Russian person he knew of? Ivan Braginski. And you know who Ivan Braginski was? The person Hitman was sent to—and failed to—kill. And you know what this person is close to finding out? Alfred's "daytime" identity. Alfred couldn't allow that, for the sake of his life, social and not, he couldn't allow that. These whirled about his mind, so he did something he may or may not regret. He forced Jones out.

Meanwhile, Ivan was taking confident, but cautious, steps towards his assassin, preparing a finishing blow, when a noise stopped him in his tracks. It was a laugh. Coming from the blond. Ivan watched as the blond lifted his head, revealing his face that was partly shadowed by bangs. This face was different from the naively innocent face he had been battling moments ago, this face was insane and sadistic. It was the face from some nights before, the first time a captive had escaped his grasp. This was it.

This was Hitman Jones.

* * *

 **Hola! It has been a while, hasn't it? I have no excuses, and I also have this little motto "I am ashamed, but have no regrets." Also, I'm sorry if I'm terrible at portraying the characters accurately, and I know that I am very bad at writing action scenes, so there's that too. Man, I'm a terrible writer, I have no idea what I'm doing!**


	5. Chapter 5

"Ah, well this is new, Alfie rarely ever forces me out, I wonder what the occasion is," Jones mused before looking up.

If not for years of training, Ivan would have shuddered with the way the blond was looking at him. Like a hunter observing prey.

"Oh! We meet again," Jones smiled. "A pity that it will be the last time."

"For which one of us, I wonder?" Ivan responded.

Without another word, the blond man surged forward. Ivan had trouble anticipating what Hitman would do, he was unarmed after all, so he assumed he would turn to punching him. Ivan got ready to intercept Hitman's attacks with his pipe, he knew that it could easily break someone's hand if they hit it hard enough. As Jones raised his fist, Ivan saw his leg also lift off the ground. Using the velocity he had built up while running, he sent his foot right into Ivan's stomach, knocking him backwards. Ivan had barely any time to react, but he managed to slam his pipe down, and with the way he was currently falling, he was lucky to hear a sharp crack. Ivan watched, quite proud of his mini victory, as Jones fell to the ground with a cry.

"Shit," Jones cursed. He was pretty sure that his leg was at least dislocated, but it was most likely broken. _I could force Alfred out, no one would dare touch his puppy face, he hasn't got a lot, but he has that for sure_ , Jones thought to himself.

Ivan stood over the grounded hitman, pipe raised, victorious smile, and dominating aura. He began sending the pipe downwards, but he stopped just an inch from the finishing blow. Something strange happened to the hitman's face, again. His clear blue eyes—which Ivan would be lying if he said the weren't attractive—were wide and frightened, something looked. . . younger about him. His face was innocent yet cocky.

"Who—No. . . what are you?" Ivan wondered out loud, pipe still posed a mere inch from the blond's head.

"Are you going to finish me or not? I'm defenseless and I literally cannot move," Alfred asked Ivan, ignoring the other's previous question.

Yes, there was definitely something different. Was it in the way he spoke, his mannerisms? Ivan's thoughts were drawn away when he realized that the other was, quite literally, naked. Ivan usually never thought of anything but work, but in that moment, a new, strange thought entered his mind. He crouched down in front of the immobile man, careful to secure the other' hands before he moved closer. Alfred, in the meantime, was very confused. He was wounded and the perfect prey, why was he not dead yet? And why would Hitman have forced him back out when he most obviously the better choice in this situation.

Ivan forced Alfred to look straight at him as he moved forward, closing the distance between their faces slowly until their lips met each other. Alfred began freaking out, trying to wriggle away as he became more and more aware of his unclothed state. Ivan kept his eyes open, looking at the other's face, studying it. He was forced to pull away when the blond who was desperately fighting to get away bit his lip.

"What the fuck, dude? You're supposed to kill me, not. . . not whatever the hell you just did! I thought you a sadistic psycho, but a pervert?" Alfred ranted before a hand cupped over his mouth in an attempt to quiet him.

"You are different, yet you are the same, who and what are you?" Ivan demanded.

Alfred, however was busy blushing and shouting curses at the man above him, but neither of them noticed the flash of a bright red mask behind the trees until the new person stepped out into the open, a gun aimed at Ivan. Ivan looked over at the new person and scowled.

"Of course cowards never travel alone," he mumbled, the comment drawing an indignant comment from the man below him.

Ivan got up and began walking away, hands up to the gun-wielding person. He looked back at Alfred one last time and said, "I will find you, and all of your secrets," before disappearing into the trees.

Alfred let out a shuddering breath before looking at the red masked person.

"Mattie, thank fuck that you're here!" Alfred sighed before pausing. "Wait, when the _fuck_ did you get here? I thought you were still in Canada!"

"Well I came back, and you should be glad I did, eh?" Mattie laughed before approaching. "What exactly did you do to make someone like that attack you in a neutral territory? He fucking _broke_ your leg!"

"He did?" Alfred gasped. "I knew it hurt for some reason, but fuck. . . it's broken?"

"You're such an idiot, how could you not know your own leg was broken?"

"Well. . . I guess it happened when, you know, he was out."

Matthew paused. "Oh," he said simply before continuing. "Well anyway, I went to Arthur's to see where you were after you weren't at the bar, he told me that he didn't have "A bloody clue" because it had been hours since he sent you to bury someone. I'm glad I found you before anything serious happened. Nothing serious happened, right? Besides your leg?"

Alfred thought back. "Well that dude saw me basically naked, if that counts," Alfred joked before pausing. "Holy shit!"

Matthew looked worried, "What? What happened?"

Alfred hesitated, should he tell Matthew? They were brothers after all, they never hid anything from each other, but this was different, wasn't it? What should he do? Alfred looked up sheepishly, "Well, for some reason, I don't know why, don't ask me. I mean like, I do know why, after all, who could resist–"

"Alfred," Matthew glared. "What. Happened?"

"Um. . . Well," Alfred blushed a little, "he k-kissed me?"

 _"What?"_

* * *

 **Look! I'm not dead, just a procrastinator. I suck at action...**


	6. Chapter 6

"Okay, okay, so let me get this straight," Matthew sighed. "That guy back there was Ivan Braginski, the Ivan Braginski?" Alfred nodded the affirmative. "And he has tried to kill you twice now. . . and he has _kissed_ you. . . twice now?" Alfred nodded again, lowering his head.

"Jesus Al, you are officially the stupidest person I know!"

"To be fair, the first time was Jones' fault!" Alfred defended.

"Hey! Blondie, some assistants here?" called a voice from the other end of the bar.

Alfred turned around with a smile, trying to hide how ticked off he was at being called "blondie".

"Coming right over, sir!" he shouted with a cheery voice.

Matthew noticed that, as Alfred turned his back, half of the bar started looking at the young bartender's backside, but when he returned from helping the impatient customer, they all quickly looked away. They all recalled what happened to the last man who tried getting some. Even Matthew knew.

"Hey, Al, why don't you quit working here?" Matthew sighed.

"What? Why? I mean, it's a nice cover up, plus they were hiring when I had no where to go, so this is good."

"Well, I know it's not formally known as a gay bar, but frankly Al? You couldn't have not noticed all the attention you're getting from," he made a small motion around the room.

Alfred looked around, smiling brightly at the people who met his eyes, it seemed friendly enough, but anyone who knew Alfred could tell he was sizing everyone up. When Alfred looked back at his brother he smiled and sang, "Nope, I don't see what you're talking about! But then again, who could resist all this?"

It was a lie, Matthew knew, his brother was more observant and smart than most people made him out to be. It was a good cover though, judging by what he was actually supposed to be. Everyone thought that Alfred was the idiot side and He was the smart side. Matthew never really liked thinking about his brother's condition, especially because he thought it was his fault. Pushing all thoughts out of his mind, Matthew sighed and stood up.

"Yeah, whatever Alfred. I have got to go, sorry I could only visit for a little," he said.

"No problem little bro!" Alfred called out as his twin was leaving.

"I'm the older one. . ." Matthew mumbled as he left.

* * *

"Gilbert," Ivan called to the albino man sitting on a thin bed as he entered the small, reinforced holding room.

"What do you want, you un-awesome bastard?" the albino replied enthusiastically.

"Come now, that is no way to treat an old friend, da?"

"Friend? What friend? Anyway, what do you want, my awesome self does not wish to talk to you unless this is about returning me to my brother," Gilbert quipped.

Ivan giggled, "No, no, nothing like that. I have come for information."

Gilbert smirked, "Something that the Great Braginski doesn't know? My, my, you must be desperate for my awesome help."

Ivan stopped laughing, expression darkening. "Just give me the information I need."

"You keep talking about 'information' yet you haven't told me about what?"

"Hitman Jones. You trained him, did you not?"

Gilbert didn't respond.

Ivan surged forward, trapping the albino's neck against the hard wall.

"Tell me," Ivan demanded.

Gilbert did his best to shake his head while his neck was trapped. Unpleased wit his answer, Ivan began slowly tightening his grip, completely prepared to kill the albino.

"Fine!" Gilbert rasped, waiting for the grip on his neck to ease so he could breathe. He took a faint breath of air before beginning.

"Yes, I did train Hitman Jones. My best pupil, dare I say. So what do you want to know?

"Where he is from, his personality, his weaknesses, everything," Ivan demanded.

Gilbert looked at him strangely when he had said 'personality,' but he had quickly covered it up before starting. "Well, he's from this city, I found him in a park, all alone. He caught my eye 'cause he was, um. . . _dismembering_ a dead cat. Once, I asked him how he got there and where his family was and he said that he had at a hospital but ran away when "the nice lady couldn't breath anymore". Well, anyway, I picked him up and started training him.

"He was a fast learner, almost as awesome as me! But he was a ruthless kid, really curious—in a demented way. When we were training he would always look out and see other kids playing, so one day I decided to let him go out too, for the experience. Kids just wanna have fun, right?" He sighed, "Well, he ran away, chasing the poor kids outside. I lost him for a while after that. Apparently he had found this kid named Davie who took him in for a bit, until I tracked him down that is. Needless to say, I never let him out after that fiasco, well, until his training was complete, when that time came around, I shipped him off to Kirkland's."

Gilbert paused, wondering if there was anything left to say. "Ah, he also ended up killing that kid, Davie. Apparently the kid had become precious to Al–" Gilbert realized his mistake and quickly fixed it, "Jones, but when they crossed paths again, the kid didn't remember him. Jones got angry, brought him to me, asking to use a room, I dunno what happened exactly, I just know that there was a lot of screaming."

Gilbert looked expectantly at Ivan when he finished. Ivan looked back, piercing his soul with his deep violet eyes.

"You called Hitman Jones, Jones, so what is his really name?" Ivan questioned. ""Al" something? Alek? Alistair? Tell me."

Gilbert immediately broke eye contact and shook his head.

"I can't give you that, I've already betrayed him enough," Gilbert said as he slowly realized that Ivan could easily track down Alfred's history in the news reports from all those years ago in the hospital.

Ivan wanted to push the albino more, but he decided against it, he had everything he needed. He would find the man who he couldn't bring himself to kill, and he would, hopefully, find out why.

* * *

 **I was trying to sleep this morning and I just got really good inspiratio, well not really good, because I suck, but still. Enjoi :3**


	7. Chapter 7

"Alfred?" called a soft, kind voice behind him.

"Oh, what is it Toris?" Alfred asked.

"It is time for a switch, you may go to the kitchen to clean glasses now," Toris responded.

Alfred made a dramatic gesture, "But it's so boring back there!" He went anyway.

The brown haired man sighed as he watched the retreating form of his employee. Sometimes it was difficult to run a bar by himself with very little help, but Alfred was so energetic that he made it bearable.

Toris had only been working in the front for a few minutes when a certain man walked in, a pleased smile on his face at seeing who was at the bar. As he began walking over, an obviously drunk man bumped into him.

"Watch it, buddy!" the drunk man shouted.

As he said this, the other man's eyes changed from mild amusement, to annoyance. He grabbed the drunk's face, squeezing it painfully, "Privet, comrade. You seem to have made a mistake, it is _you_ who shall be 'watching it'. But, I am in a good mood, so I shall let you off with a warning."

He let the drunk man go, who then promptly ran out of the bar, his pants throughly wetted. The other man continued towards the bar, smiling at Toris.

"Privet, Toris!" he called happily.

"Privet, Mr. Braginski," Toris responded, managing to not stutter. "What do you need?"

Ivan hummed, "Well, you see, I have come into possession of some very valuable information and I would like to celebrate," he gestured towards the back.

"Of course! You know the way, or would you like an escort?" Toris always had a private room reserved for when the Russian man was happy or—most undesirably—angry.

"Nyet, you have work to do," he gestured to the mildly crowded bar.

Toris watched Ivan's back at he walked towards the back. He hoped that the man didn't run into Alfred, he had a habit of disturbing anyone who wasn't an employee who ended up back there. Feliks, more of a partner than an employee, was the same, but a bit less. . . violent, when it came to it.

* * *

Ivan smiled happily to himself as he made his way to his private room, specially stocked with vodka for his own pleasure. He had come here right after juicing Gilbert of information. Even if the Kirkland forces had managed to cover up information about Jones in private records and such, there was no way they could hide information on the internet. After all, "Once you post it, it's there forever", and he knew Toris' brother, Eduard, was skilled with computers and technology, and Ivan trusted that he could find anything he wished for. Ivan was ripped from his thoughts when he passed the kitchen where he heard a crash and someone—with a delightfully familiar voice—curse. He peeked in, he was greeted with the sight of a short man with long, blond hair. The annoying Pol, he realized, Feliks. He looked like he was scolding the person who had cursed, another man, much taller, and also with blond hair. However, this man had blue eyes and a trademark lock of hair that wouldn't sit down.

Ivan stared from behind the wall, so surprised that the two of them had been so close all this time. Since when had Hitman Jones worked at this bar? Ivan wondered if he should approach the hitman or find more dirt on him. He mentally voted for the latter. Quietly sneaking past the door, Ivan made his way towards one of the backrooms, the office. He had been here before with Toris to fire an employee that had made him angry. He opened the door with his own copy of the key and approached one of the room's many filing cabinets, this one was labeled "Employee Info". He searched through each of the folders' names, he knew that Jones would not just say, "Oh, yes, just call me Hitman Jones," so he would either be using an alias or his real name. Ivan hoped it was the latter, but he knew the cunning Hitman would not be so stupid. A few names caught his eye, but only one in particular. Could it be? Hitman making his alias so obvious?

"Alfred Jones. . ." Ivan mumbled, suddenly the door to the office creaked open, Ivan whipped around, ready to attack.

"What the. . ." Alfred said as he saw (once again) the familiar, giant figure of Ivan Braginski. "The hell?"

Momentarily both were froze in place, simply staring at each other, soon Alfred's eyes drifted to Ivan's hands, more specifically, what they were holding.

"Ah," he gasped, looking up at Ivan's face. "Well, I don't know what the protocol for revealing your secret identity is so, hi? Surprise?"

"You seem oddly nonchalant, if I didn't know any better I'd say you don't care that I now know basically everything about you, Hitman Jones—or rather, Alfred. I'm surprised that you did not make an effort on creating and alias, keeping the same surname and all," Ivan stated.

"Well, first of all, who says I don't care, on the inside I am screaming and planning and epic escape and new identity. Second, who says that "Alfred Jones" is my alias?"

Another staring contest ensued.

"So, I don't know about you, bro, but I'm not in the mood to fight, I've had a bad enough day already. I don't want to top it off with more bruises," Alfred suggested.

"More bruises?" Ivan asked despite himself.

Alfred spoke without thinking, a rare occurrence regardless of what it seemed like. "Well, some of those bruises are on my pride, because," he gestured to the bar, "there are a lot of perverts in there. Extremely attractive and young bartenders and perverts do not mix. Or perhaps they mix too well?" Alfred said a bit egotistically.

Ivan got the gist, but then he realized he was having a mildly civilized conversation with his almost-killer and current target of interest. He also saw that the wheat blond man did not have a murderous gleam in his eyes, only a small, weary look.

"You have a split personality," Ivan stated, as it was the only logical explanation for his behavior and being blunt seemed to work on him.

"How did you know?" Alfred slapped himself. Of course he found out, after all, Ivan was observant, he tracked every small detail. Not to mention, Jones had faced Ivan as both Alfred and Hitman, so he would have undoubtedly seen the differences. Well, even if he hadn't known for sure, he did now. _Damn it Jones! You are such an idiot!_

Ivan coughed. For some reason this encounter with the hitman seemed much more awkward than the others. Granted, they were beating the crap out of each other in their past encounters. They needed to fight, it suddenly seemed the only way to avoid this odd conversation.

"Who knew that the great Hitman Jones was a bartender at a gay bar," Ivan prodded.

"It's not a gay bar! Not officially at least. . . That's not the point! Why are you even here? How did you know I worked here?" Alfred demanded, seriously considering Hitman as a way to get out of this mess.

"So many questions. I have nothing better to do, so I guess I'll answer them. First, I was here for a celebratory drink. Second, I didn't, but I can safely say, that I'm glad you do. I haven't been able to get any of your records after you took them, this saved quite a bit of effort."

"Why do you even need to know about me? I try to kill you and you try to eliminate me, that's our relationship, nothing more or less."

"Well, you see, wouldn't it be easier to eliminate that which you know of rather than try to destroy the unknown?" Ivan asked.

That made sense. Yet they still weren't fighting. How awkward.

Alfred sighed, his will completely drained for the day. "Well, if you want to kill me, do it now, because I honestly feel dead already and I haven't taken my meds. So hurry up."

Ivan did not like this attitude. He needed a fight, some fun, a bit of thrill. Currently? He was getting nothing.

"Nyet, I think I am content with this for now," he said holding up Alfred's employee file.

Alfred was confused, "What? Why? I'm here and willing, well half of me is willing."

Ivan did not answer, simply walking towards him. When they were practically brushing shoulders, Ivan whispered, "I like to hunt my prey, not have them served on a silver plater."

He left the bar while Alfred shuddered from both their proximity and his words. "Creepy douchebag," he mumbled.

* * *

 **Grimm is not dead, yet. She wishes, but she is not. However, she is quickly losing her will to both live and write. Living part because she is and American student, and we all know how that works out, and the writing part because she is quickly losing her creativity. She should probably learn how to use story boards instead of making things up as she goes.**


End file.
